Reparation (The Kane Trilogy, #3)(79)

“Aright. Alright, baby girl, I'll go. If that's what you want. That's all I came here to do, all I ever wanted to do for you; just give you whatever you want,” he said in a soft voice.

Tate swallowed thickly, but before she could even think about what he had said, he was walking away. Striding towards the elevators, barefoot and in a ball cap. Looking as unlike Jameson Kane as he ever could, as she would probably ever see.

Too much.

“Tatum, are you okay? I'm sorry, about all that, what I said. I didn't know he was here, I was caught off guard,” Nick said from behind her, his hand cupping her elbow. She nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think he got here today,” she said softly.

“You knew?”

“I bumped into him earlier. Just for a couple minutes.”

“Why didn't you say something?” he asked. She shrugged.

“I didn't think it mattered,” she whispered, still staring after him.

Nick pulled her into a hug. She leaned into him, trying to hear his heart beat. Trying to let it ground her. Tried to concentrate on his arms around her. But all she heard was words. So many words, running around her head.

“... You're part of me, you belong with me ... I want to be with you. I want you to be with me ... I can bear the thought of you being out there alone, without me. What I can't bear is the thought of you being out there with the wrong man ...”

“Do you want to leave?” Nick asked. She shook her head and pulled away.

“No, I'm fine. Let's just go sit down,” she told him, and started walking back towards the conference room.

“Wait. What is this?” Nick asked. She turned back to see him scooping up the velvet jewelry box from the ground.

“Nothing. Just ..., nothing. Here, it's mine,” she said, taking it from him.

She sat at the table and fidgeted. She felt like her heart was going to beat out of her chest. She felt like was going to puke. She smiled and laughed at all the appropriate times, but she wasn't listening. She was thinking about blue eyes and strong fingers.

Wrong. He's wrong for you. He's never understood what you want, what you really want.

By the time dessert was brought out, she felt like she was calming down. She was laughing at something an outfielder's wife was saying. Nick had even lightened up a little. He had cleaned himself and his nose had stopped bleeding, which was a plus. Now his hand was back on her knee. She ignored the way her skin felt so ..., normal, under his touch.

“Doing okay?” he asked, leaning close to her ear. She nodded.

“Yeah. Just tired,” she replied. He smiled at her.

“Why don't we go upstairs, and I can -,” he started, when he was interrupted by one of the coaches. Tate let out sigh of relief. The last thing she wanted to do was “go upstairs” with Nick.

While he chattered away to the coach, her eyes fell on the black velvet box. She glared at it. Stupid Jameson. Stupid fu-cking pearls. Fitting though, pearls the first time they came together. Pearls the last time they parted. She wondered how much they cost, wondered if she could leave them at the front desk for him to pick up. Wondered if she could strangle him with them. She drummed her fingers against the box.

“Awww, did Nicky get that for you?” the same wife from earlier drawled in a thick Southern accent. Tate smiled.

“Oh no, it's from ..., an admirer,” Tate joked.

“Ooohhh, may I ask what it is?” the lady continued. Tate shrugged.

“I'm not really sure, I haven't opened it.”

“Well, honey, what are you waiting for!? That's a big box! Open it!” the woman insisted. Tate sighed and dragged the box forward. Braced herself to see what her price was this time around. $50,000, $60,000, hell, maybe he'd gone all out - $75,000. She flipped open the lid.

She gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. She couldn't believe it. Couldn't fu-cking believe it. Tears filled her eyes, and she managed a laugh. She was vaguely aware of the woman asking her what was wrong, asking what was in the box, but she ignored her. A long ago conversation floated into her mind.



“It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me.”

“If Ang gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?”

“You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge.”



Sitting inside the fancy velvet box, a box that had a Cartier logo on the inside of it, was the guadiest, ugliest, tackiest strand of fake pearls, ever. Fake was too generous a word. The necklace was basically costume jewelry. It was like he had walked into one of those Claire's boutiques, then looked through the clearance bin for the cheapest piece of shit necklace he could possibly find. It even had the price tag still stuck to it. The actual cost had been crossed out with a black marker, but it had been marked down and the original price was still visible.

$4.99.

She could not stop laughing.

Oh, Satan. Got me again.

“What's so funny?” Nick suddenly asked.

“He ..., it's ..., I can't,” she laughed. He glanced into the box.